Top 10 Most Beautiful Essays About Homeland

Though I don’t make plans, every year, I still feel this deep urge to return to my roots, to lean against the timeworn stones of the village where the shadows of the past linger. I long to feel my spirit merge with the serene soul of my homeland, to gaze upon the vibrant red hue of the March cotton tree, as the golden light of sunset wraps it in its embrace along the riverbank.

I believe that anyone who has been far from home, or forced to leave, will always miss and love their homeland as if it were their own life. I enjoy traveling along the Red River, visiting ancient villages by its banks. Especially in March, I look forward to the blooming of the cotton flowers. Every year when this season arrives, I am reminded of their distinctive color, a hue that is so special to the North. The cotton tree, also known as “Pơ Lang” or “Mộc Miên,” has a beautiful name that reflects its elegance.

As a child, when I first heard of the cotton tree, I didn’t know what kind of flower it was. I imagined it might be the tree that produced the rice my grandmother cooked for us every day. Curious, I once asked her, and she chuckled, “Oh, sweetheart, the cotton tree doesn’t grow rice. It’s just called the cotton tree. It, along with the banyan, is the tree that protects the village, gives us shade, and reminds those who wander far to return home.” Still puzzled, I asked, “But why is it called the cotton tree if it doesn’t grow rice?” She replied with a smile, “There’s a legend about a young couple and their everlasting love. The brilliant red of the cotton flowers is said to come from the spirit of the girl, to remind her lover of her beauty and love every time he gazes upon them.”

I remember walking with my grandmother past the village’s communal house, watching the cotton flowers twirl and fall. I joyfully caught one in my hand, and as I looked at the vibrant red flower, I wondered if its beauty was so cherished that it deserved to be called the cotton flower. While not as soft as plum flowers, as fragrant as grapefruit blossoms, or as graceful as lotus flowers, the cotton flower is deeply familiar to us. It symbolizes the countryside, representing the humble, sturdy, and resilient nature of the people who live there.

“In March, the cotton flowers herald the coming of summer,
Their fiery red light flickers down the village path.
Long after, when we meet again, it's a surprise,
Who spread these red embers across the sky?”

When the cotton flowers bloom, their bright red color is often compared to fiery embers falling from the sky. Despite the common saying “The banyan tree is a god, the cotton tree is a ghost,” anyone who experiences the breathtaking sight of a red cotton blossom painting the sky will forget the old superstition. Each time I return home in March, I search the village for these flowers, marveling at their roots deep in the earth, their spiny trunks like a warrior’s weapon, defying storms and harsh winds. The branches, heavy with red flowers, sway in the breeze, and when a strong gust blows, the blossoms spin like little windmills before falling to the ground. My emotions have changed since childhood; instead of joy, I now feel a bittersweet sense of loss, as if the falling petals hide both beauty and sorrow within their vibrant embrace.

Today, as I see the cotton flowers bloom once more,
Their red hue as bright as my own heart.
I remember that farewell in Hanoi so long ago...
When the petals bloom, they burst open,
Red like the hope of our love,
Cotton flowers, you are humble,
But you warm the hearts of those in the cold.
Along with the plum and grapefruit of March,
You breathe life into the world’s gentle air...
You make me fall in love with March all over again.
(Hà Nội Mùa Hoa Gạo by Lê Minh)

At times, when I feel weary or troubled, my heart longs to return to the peaceful dike, the green grass, the bright sunlight, and the fiery cotton flowers that ignite a burning desire within me. I want to spread my arms wide and soar, embracing the peace and love that calls me home.

When we miss our homeland, our village, perhaps it is the red of the cotton flower that carries our memories and beautiful childhood dreams. We know the flowers will bloom and fall according to the eternal rhythm of life, but the thought of them still tugs at our hearts. I long to see them bloom every year, as if witnessing them means that love endures. During these moments, I quietly whisper, “Grandmother, are you still there?”

Will the cotton tree continue to bloom amidst the changes in the village? Right now, in the North, the cotton flowers are preparing to bloom, and I miss them dearly! I long to return but can’t. Another season of cotton flowers has passed me by.

Though unspoken, every year I still feel this yearning to return to my homeland, to lean against the weathered stones of the village, where time’s shadow has left its mark. I wish to feel my soul merge with the peaceful essence of the countryside and watch the vibrant red hue of the cotton flowers at sunset along the dike.

I rest my head in March’s embrace, gazing at the passing of seasons...

Lê Minh

For those of us far from home, who've been away for so long, carrying memories of our homeland, have you ever wondered if one day when we return, the land will still be the same, the sky unchanged, but we might not be able to fully grasp the depth of our longing? It's not easy to hold onto that lingering, deep, and uneasy yearning. So, when we return, there's still an indescribable sense of emptiness, of something lost. Can one truly explain the pain of a child separated from their roots, from their long-gone childhood and youth?

I use the word "touch" because it's no longer just a vague idea or a distant image. It exists, it's vivid, and it becomes deeply imprinted in the mind. When we return, even the smallest detail, the faintest sound, or the slightest brush of an object can ignite that insatiable yearning, stirring a deep desire. And it's a feeling of incompleteness, not being able to "touch" the very core of that longing, that dream of home. The river is still there, with its shifting banks, and the waves continue to roll endlessly, but where is the boat that once docked here? How many trips has it made, carrying people far away, never to return? By the bridge, people pass by quickly, lost in their busy lives. At the village entrance, the ancient banyan tree is nowhere to be seen. The bamboo groves are gone, and the storks are no more. The moss-covered stones? They’ve long disappeared.

The first "touch" might be the feeling of bare feet on the ground. But wait, it's not the dirt road anymore, not the village path with gravel. Now, it's paved with smooth concrete or asphalt. How can one "touch" the coolness underfoot, or feel the sharpness of gravel, or the tiny cuts from the thorns of bamboo? I can't even get my feet dirty to step into the grassy edge or wash them in the village pond. The water is still there, its surface rippling with faint reflections. I long to dip my feet in, to stir the water, to watch the swirling eddies. I remember the rainy days, when the current was fierce, and after the rain, my friends and I would stand by, watching as we tossed leaves and grasses into the swirling whirlpools, everything being swept away to unknown depths. When the whirlpools faded, we would search the bank for the debris, the battered leaves and twigs, swept away by time. Life is like that whirlpool, constantly pulling us away, only to return fragments of what we once were, broken and incomplete. The more we swirl, the deeper we go, until we’re lost, sometimes even beyond reach. Over time, something is always lost—our pure voices, the innocence of youth.

I look around the road, where are the hibiscus hedges, the thorny vines, or the twisting morning glory that once wrapped around the curved bamboo? Oh, how the pink silk-cotton flowers spread, entwining with everything in their path, growing strong. Yet, the bamboo still stands, lush and green, a symbol of those days when I, and the children of my village, would pull on the branches to make jump ropes, or use bamboo sticks for games. It was as if everything was connected in that way, binding together the vibrant green of the road, the hope of simpler times.

I arrive at the alley, but the once-present green apple trees are gone. I remember breaking off a branch, jabbing it with a sharp thorn, and tossing it on the ground like an arrow. The green apple trees used to be the hallmark of our village lanes, growing abundantly. Sometimes, my father would trim them, shaping them into neat blocks. And then, I wanted to touch the courtyard where rice was spread out to dry. I wanted to run my fingers through the grain, remembering how every little corner of the land seemed to be teeming with life, from the wheat kernels hidden in the smallest cracks to the sprouting rice that would grow in the earth after being touched by the rain. The seasons came and went, filling the village paths with harvest, and piles of straw stacked high. I wanted to feel the warmth of the rice under the moonlight, play hide-and-seek in the haystacks. Touch to feel the scent of wet straw in the morning, the unharvested piles waiting to be piled high on the rooftops. But one sunny day, the hay would be gone, shriveled into nothingness, leaving behind only a fragile memory. That fragile memory, though, holds the warmth of fire, of maize and cassava, of the comforting scent of smoke curling from the kitchen stove. It lingers, a reminder of the village life we left behind.

I want to touch the doorframe, to stumble and fall, yet it seems like there's nothing left to trip over. This doorframe, which I passed through countless times in my childhood, held my footsteps, my songs, my mother's soft lullabies, and my father's comforting words. The creaking of the door’s hinges, the sound of the old wood scraping as it opened. But now, standing before it, I can't touch the threshold anymore. I want to sit on the old wooden bench in the middle of the house, where the sound of chatter, laughter, and the clinking of the smoking pipe once filled the air. The scent of tobacco hung in the chilly air, a reminder of those cold, windy evenings. I want to curl up in my father’s arms, look up at the ceiling, listening to the crackle of the thatched roof in the wind. The cat wanders aimlessly, rubbing against me, sensing the tranquility, the peace in the air. The warm oil lamp casts a gentle light, filling the room with a comforting glow. It’s warmth I can’t seem to find anymore.

I long to touch the childhood garden, the corners of the yard where the greenery had once taken over, hiding from the rain and the sun, shielding everything within. The small footsteps I once left behind are now long gone. The trees—the custard apple, the jackfruit, the guava—once laden with fruit, are no longer there. The birds perched high on the palm tree look down, perhaps with something to say, but I’ll never know. Perhaps it’s the cycle of life, the way some things grow and others fade. The garden is still there, but it’s quieter now. I can’t hear the whispers of the leaves, the flowers. I want to go to the well and touch the moonlight that reflects on the water, to feel its coolness, to wash my face with it. Just one splash from the bucket would be enough to awaken the face of time itself, bringing back all the memories we thought were lost. And in the silence of the well, the moss and the water hold everything—gently, like time itself.

And so, my heart overflows with longing, as I strive to reach out for those lost memories. I never met my grandfather, but I’ve heard from my grandmother that I have his smile, his face. His image lives on in my heart, even though we’ve never touched. How I long to see my grandmother sitting in the corner, chewing betel leaves as she quietly whispers stories, her hands busy collecting dry twigs from the garden, her body bent from age. She would shuffle slowly, leaning on her cane, sweeping the leaves into a pile, tending the fire, cooking the meals. I want to climb the ladder, pluck some betel leaves for her, break off a thick areca nut, and smear it with lime for her to chew. I want to sit with her, counting time, feeling the warmth of her hands. I yearn to touch her brown, worn-out dress and gaze into her tender, loving eyes. Her silhouette is now a fading memory, as she’s long turned to mist.

All memories easily shatter when we can't touch the breath, the voice, the laughter. But the trees in the garden remain, standing still in the silence. Perhaps it’s the trees that bear witness to the changes over time. If I could touch them all, maybe I wouldn’t long for them so intensely. I don’t know, but I know this: I want to touch them, in my dreams, when I’m far away, and when I return. And so, I carry this desire to "touch" as my companion on this journey—one that began, is ongoing, and will continue for years to come.

Dương Thắng

The Ao Dai is a symbol of the pride and respect for the beauty of Vietnamese culture. It is our national costume, one that we, as a people, hold dear. Through history, many poets have immortalized this flowing garment in their verses, celebrating the beauty and grace of Vietnamese women.

As a Vietnamese girl, wearing the Ao Dai brings me immense joy and makes me feel beautiful and vibrant. When I walk down the street, I see other girls in their Ao Dais, and it strikes me how this garment has become a defining cultural symbol of our nation. Designed to honor the delicate and dignified beauty of Vietnamese women, the Ao Dai has now become a favorite for young girls, especially for photo shoots shared on social media with reflections on the garment's meaning.

The Ao Dai accentuates the figure with its graceful flow. No matter the color, it adds a timeless elegance and charm to its wearer. As I walk past, I smile to myself, thinking that this elegant Ao Dai will make an impression, and leave a lasting memory in the hearts of those who see it.

With its two delicate panels, the Ao Dai seems to make the very air jealous, as the breeze causes the fabric to flutter, enhancing the beauty of every woman who wears it. Paired with a conical hat and a woven handbag, the Ao Dai carries a charm that speaks of grace and warmth. Each time I wear the Ao Dai, I never forget to bring along the conical hat and the bag. Though women wear many different colors of Ao Dai throughout their lives, it is the white Ao Dai from our school years that holds a special place in our hearts. It is the purest and most innocent, the first Ao Dai we ever wear.

During holidays and festivals, we may wear a variety of outfits, but the most special occasion to wear the Ao Dai is when we step into the journey of life with our loved one. I remember walking through streets lined with trees, standing under the purple Lagerstroemia tree, reminiscing about my youthful days, like a fleeting rain that left behind memories of my innocent school days, with the white Ao Dai and unspoken love notes tucked away in the drawer.

As a Vietnamese girl, I feel even prouder to wear the Ao Dai, for it represents the traditions, culture, and sacred essence of my homeland. Even those who have left their homeland carry the image of the Ao Dai in their hearts, in their memories. I find my heart fluttering when I think of the Ao Dai, and as I step into the world of literature and art, I consider myself lucky to be able to express its beauty in my works. Writing about the Ao Dai stirs many emotions within me, not only because of the love and passion behind the words, but also because of the deep affection I feel for this traditional garment.

Vietnam has many other beautiful traditions and cultural art forms, but as a Vietnamese, I hope that everyone will always appreciate these aspects of our heritage. Let's not forget the Ao Dai, sisters. Life passes by quickly, but let's continue to wear the Ao Dai with pride during festivals, holidays, or even just for a stroll through the streets on a breezy afternoon. Don't ever think that we are too old or not pretty enough to wear it. In my eyes, no woman is ever unattractive in the Ao Dai. It has a unique grace that only Vietnamese women can carry with elegance.

Soft and graceful, the fabric of the Ao Dai flows.
Slender and elegant, it rests upon the shoulders.
Red lips, as sweet as the first blush of dawn.
White as the pure moonlit sky.
I think, the Ao Dai is poetry in motion…

The Ao Dai has been the iconic image of Vietnamese women for centuries. Today, it is not only beloved by Vietnamese people but also admired by tourists worldwide. It is a symbol of elegance and cultural pride. You can often find fascinating posts about the Ao Dai online, showcasing the appreciation and respect that the younger generations have for this unique national costume.

Author: Phuong Uyen

As April arrives, it carries with it golden beams of sunlight. Pausing gently by the garden, filled with the scent of wildflowers, my heart leaps with excitement. Out there, the peach and apricot branches have already shed their blossoms, leaving only a few faded buds. The call of the cuckoo calling for summer is heard so hauntingly. The morning dew calls the grass to stir.

The betel nut palms, after many seasons, continue to stand tall. Yet when the flowers bloom, their sweet fragrance spreads through the village. Each delicate petal, shy and small, hesitates to open fully, much like a fifteen-year-old girl, tender and ful. When the flowers fall, young green betel nuts replace them. Someday, these will be used in a magnificent “country wedding procession,” a vibrant display.

The scent of the homeland mixes with the gentle breeze—not as overpowering as French perfumes, nor as deep as the essence of Dubai’s oils—but it still intoxicates, enchants, and fills the heart with longing. It lingers in the rice fields, by the mulberry trees. It rises in the smoke of the evening, soft and ethereal. It’s in the wildflowers growing along the shores, in the bunches of vegetables, and the purple roots of the wild ginger. The water drawn from the village well may have no fragrance or taste, yet it is still sweet, captivating the heart.

The fragrance of home infuses every lullaby mothers sing: “Last night, I drew water from the village pond, leaving my shirt hanging on the lotus stem…” Is this not the fragrance of lotus, soft and warm? Is this not the taste of home, woven into the rhythm of mothers’ work, the songs sung in the old village square?

The scent of the homeland blends into the sound of the rice pounder working through the night. The cuckoo’s cry echoes with a sadness, the endless murmur of the corn plant’s song. The call of the cricket’s rhythm, the buzzing of summer cicadas, and the distant call of the cattle. Even the purple flowers of the wild xoan tree, fluttering as if they wish to bow before rising again, remind us of delicate snowflakes drifting in early winter. Their fragrance may not be strong, but it is enough to captivate the heart. It paints the sky purple, matching the dreams of those far away from home.

Could it be that the gentle, pure fragrance of the homeland is the reason why, no matter how far one travels, we long to return and inhale it deeply? Could it be that the taste of home, hiding in the breeze, tucked away in the rice cakes wrapped by mothers, makes us feel homesick, yearning for the moments of reunion? Could it be that the rice, the betel nuts, and all the memories of the homeland make our hearts ache with longing for the place we call “home”?

Indeed, this is the homeland. “The homeland is a sweet bunch of starfruit, the three-flavored bananas, the glutinous rice, and the sugarcane.” It is the road we walked as children, the river where we learned to swim, the place where the rooster crowed by the garden, the basket our grandmother carried to the market, and the rhythmic tapping of the schoolteacher’s cane in the village school.

It is no surprise that such memories fill us with longing. For how could we not cherish the sweet water that nourished us as we grew? How could we not be enamored by the lush green bamboo groves along the river? How could we not treasure the smell of bánh chưng (square sticky rice cakes) and bánh tét (cylindrical sticky rice cakes)? And how could we not long for the fresh scent of young summer rice?

“Homeland”—these two words are filled with affection. No matter how far we roam or how long we stay away, we can never forget the sacred place we call “a glimpse of the homeland's fragrance” in our hearts.

Collected

When the earth and sky whisper softly through the winds and the delicate fragrance of the grass, it feels as if someone is pulling the spring down gently, making my hair float in the breeze and my heart flutter. In this quiet moment, I hum a song...

Then, one day, I wake up, open my eyes to see the sky high and clear, with a new brightness in my gaze. I feel the breath of nature around me, realizing that the spring is almost here. The clouds, bright and white, seem to be gathering, no longer wandering aimlessly or resting in some forgotten corner of the sky.

The trees are alive with the chirping of sparrows, and the world is slowly turning green again, no longer silent or cold like those long, bitter winter afternoons. Flowers and leaves are blooming everywhere, bright and lively, their yellow glow radiating from the early morning light...

Along the fences, wild daisies bloom, and the hibiscus are as red as ever, while the breeze plays around the orchid pots, teasing even the vibrant chrysanthemums and the budding peach flowers waiting to burst open beneath the house's porch...

The people are bustling, the streets are full of life, and the cheerful sounds of a new day fill the air. Up in the sky, swallows swoop and dive... Everything is pushing away the old, worn-out winter. Gone are the howling winds, gone are the cold, lonely whispers of winter's last breath...

The trees whisper in the wind, and I gaze longingly at the blue sky. Spring has arrived! Tet is just around the corner, so close! It feels as though everything is pulling me back to the Tet of old, when we were with our grandparents, parents, and loved ones. I miss the Tet of those days...

The green paint has been redone in the rooms, the soft yellow is brushed on the gate where I used to stand, waiting for my mother to return from the market... Almost every wall has been freshly painted. The items have been repaired, cleaned, and polished in preparation for Tet. I can already smell the incense that my mother lights on the altar as she arranges the five-fruit tray, carefully prepared for the holiday.

The SCENT OF TET! I suddenly exclaim, filled with joy. I look out into the yard, where my father and uncles are sitting in the middle, wrapping cakes. The dark green Dong leaves slowly shape the square rice cakes as the ropes are tightened. The savory scent of the cake rises as my grandmother wraps the meat. The lively sounds mix with the laughter of my relatives, leaving an imprint on my heart. This is how Tet comes, full of cheer...

As evening falls and everything nears completion, I sit by the fire, waiting for the rice cakes to cook. The fire crackles joyfully, the soft pop of the wood, the bubbling of the boiling pot, and the occasional splashing of water onto the stove. The smoke dances in the air, stinging my eyes. The scent of the old ginger leaves that my mother always tosses into the pot to boil fills the air. She says that it brings good luck for the new year. The fragrance of ginger leaves reminds me of the Tet fragrance...

The evening darkens, and the world around me seems to come alive. Suddenly, the sound of firecrackers erupts, echoing all around. The houses are filled with people, the cheers and sounds of celebration are deafening. The flashes of firecrackers light up the sky, and the pungent smoke fills the air, causing my eyes to water. Yet, I still inhale deeply, savoring the fact that Tet is truly here...

In the aroma of Tet, there's the fragrance of firecrackers, the incense lit by my mother, the savory smell of rice cakes wrapped in Dong leaves, the ginger-scented water my mother prepares, the scent of peach and chrysanthemum blossoms... There's the scent of sweets, the laughter of my grandmother, the chatter of my parents, and the sound of my little brothers and sisters, all dressed in new clothes, running around happily...

Outside, the scent of smoke from every household wafts through the alleyways, mingling with the fragrant air of the Tet flowers... These smells must be the essence of Tet, don’t you think? I can hear the soft, pure sound of spring slipping gently through my ears...

Every spring, my heart swells with longing, with a deep yearning... How I wish to be reunited with my family for Tet, to be surrounded by grandparents, parents, and loved ones. Tet will be warm and full of joy...

I want to immerse myself in the springtime of my homeland... I want to inhale the sweet scent of Tet flowers, the aroma of green rice cakes, the fragrance of ginger water my mother prepares on the thirtieth day. I long to warm the heart of someone who has spent most of their life far from home. To know that I have returned to my mother's embrace, oh mother...

I long to witness the Tet of days gone by...

Le Minh

All the years of wandering in foreign lands have only made my longing for home grow stronger. Home, the place where I was born and raised, where a modest house with a thatched roof cradled my childhood memories, filled with warmth and love. A place where the door is always open, forgiving the mistakes of those who left but never stopped yearning to return.

I remember as a child, my mother would wake up early every day, kindling the fire with wood to cook us breakfast, while she endured hunger and carried her burdens to the fields. Year after year, she took on the hardest work, leaving us with what little was left, always keeping her sorrows hidden from us. Only when night fell, would she silently share her weariness with the cold winds, remembering my father and the struggles she faced to feed and raise us. I remember waking up one night, catching a glimpse of my mother crying, and though she quickly wiped away her tears, I could still see the deep marks on her face, the marks of a lifetime of hard work and sacrifice.

My mother told me that my father died in a fierce counterattack against the enemy on the Truong Son road. I was barely two years old then, so my memories of him are almost nonexistent. I only know my father through my mother’s proud words and through a few black-and-white photos she carefully preserved. When I asked her, she told me he was a kind and friendly man, who came from the village above, while she was from the village below. Both families were poor, but they shared a deep bond of love, and she admired him most for his passionate love for the country. My father had a tanned complexion, a warm smile, and he loved us dearly.

He left us with my mother, who had five young children to care for. His sacrifice brought her pain, a wound that never healed, but also a great pride for our family, for he had fought bravely, giving his life for the country. At home, my mother hung his war merit certificate in the most honored place, using his example to guide us, teaching us to live with honor, not just for ourselves but for our family and our country.

Now, I have my own family, a loving wife, and two well-behaved children. Becoming a father has made me understand the depths of love my parents had for me and my siblings. I work tirelessly, even when I'm ill, because I fear that missing a day’s work will result in losing an opportunity. I want to earn as much as I can to provide for my children, ensuring they can go to school and have a better life. I want to spare them the hardships my parents faced. All my love and efforts are devoted to them, to building a better future for my family.

After many years of drifting from place to place, when I finally return to the land and home where I was born, it feels like a dream. I dig my toes into the soil, feeling the sand between them, and my heart swells with a mixture of sadness and joy. I remember the old days when my siblings and I would sit around our mother, eating meals of mostly vegetables, occasionally supplemented by a few fish my mother had caught after working tirelessly in the fields. Those were simple, yet precious times. And now, as I stand there, I feel tears stinging my eyes.

The sun sets, casting pale rays of light through the old bamboo grove in the yard, while the wind whispers softly. In the distance, the sound of chickens calling out to their mothers fills the air as nightfall approaches. As I stand there, I pray for my parents’ forgiveness for abandoning them all those years ago. I have been gone for more than 20 years, and my mother has waited all this time. Now, I want to say from the depths of my heart: 'I’m sorry, Mom and Dad. Please forgive me, your ungrateful child.'

I feel regret when I recall the times I was insensitive, when I failed to comfort my mother when she cried. I should have been there to help, especially when my father passed and my mother had to bear everything alone. Every day she taught me the right values and took care of us, but in a moment of youthful foolishness, I chose the wrong path, following bad company. My mother, with all her love, tried to guide me, and once, in her frustration, she struck me. That was the first time she ever hit me, and instead of understanding, I rebelled and ran away. Now, all I feel is deep regret. I kneel before their graves, hoping time could turn back so I could make things right.

Nguyễn Hữu Phú

My homeland is not in some remote or desolate area. It is not sparsely populated like other places. Instead, the houses stand close together, forming small neighborhoods that feel like a town. Every morning, the sound of the temple bells breaks the quiet, waking the village for a new day. The elderly head to the temple, praying for the well-being of the village, while the farmers hurry to their fields, preparing for the upcoming harvest. The village, though humble, is filled with rich human connections and daily routines that make life here deeply meaningful. A cool breeze blowing from the rice fields brings a refreshing sense of peace. The morning sunlight gently warms the house, easing all worries. Oh, my hometown grows more vibrant each day.

As I witness the beauty of today's life, I cannot forget the memories of the past, memories that are etched deep within me.

The old days come rushing back, full of moments that make me laugh and cry at the same time. I search for them, but they seem to have vanished. Yet, the echoes of the past remain, and I find small treasures that few families still keep. These items—simple, handcrafted tools like the rice mill, the mortar and pestle worn smooth with age, and the large fan used for threshing rice—bring such warmth to my heart. These were tools of the village that made life easier, yet today, no one uses them anymore, for my homeland has changed.

Though these old items seem outdated now, they hold a special value in my peaceful village. The village endures, with the seasons flowing into each other. The Chu River, gentle and steady, flows toward the Ma River before heading to the sea. The giant kapok tree at the village's edge stands proudly, its branches reaching out to greet the seasons—spring, summer, with its vibrant red flowers, and the wind carrying white cotton fluff when the storms arrive. The village still thrives, though things have changed over time.

The village pond remains calm, its surface shimmering like silver under the midday sun, while the sound of the rooster’s crow echoes through the air, stirring memories deep within. After school, my friends and I would roam the fields, exploring the canals, ponds, and rivers in search of fish, shrimps, and other delights. We worked together, tending to the cows, cutting grass, and doing the tasks that were part of village life. No matter the weather, we worked hard and never complained. Life was simple, but it was beautiful.

For those who lived through those years, the memories of simple village meals are unforgettable. Rice, sometimes mixed with cassava or sweet potatoes, became a staple. It may have been humble, but it was nourishing and unforgettable. Those long years, marked by such simplicity, left memories that cannot be erased. I feel as though an entire lifetime has passed, and indeed, it has. Time has flown by, and as I meet old friends, I realize how much we have all changed.

Time continues to move forward, and the landscape of my village, shaped by nature, remains much the same. The vast fields still stretch out, and two rice harvests continue as in the past. But now, we also grow flowers and vegetables, bringing new life to the village and improving the prosperity of the people. Life has become somewhat more comfortable, and the village thrives with each passing season. The summer heat, accompanied by the wind, still feels the same. But now, every house has high walls and closed gates. The old hibiscus fences are gone, but a few houses still have flourishing tea bushes. The traces of our homeland’s past can still be found, though faint. Even the fierce rains and floods of the summer months are still a threat, but the village stands strong, protected by sturdy dikes that ensure its safety.

And every morning, the temple bells ring, and the golden sunlight filters through the trees, casting light on the earth. People go about their day, continuing to build a new life. I only wish that life would always be peaceful, so that the village could always welcome its people back, to remember the past and build an even brighter future together. In my heart, I hear the sweet, heartfelt lyrics of a song that reminds me of the deep love for my homeland: 'Homeland. Everyone has one. It is like no other. Homeland. If you forget it, you will never grow... into a person.'

Oh homeland! Though I must say goodbye, you will forever remain in my heart.

Written by Phùng Văn Định

Born and raised in the countryside, how could one not love and long for their homeland? I cherish the memories of the meals my mother cooked, the simple, humble dishes that, though plain, now make me yearn to return home and taste them again.

The one dish I miss the most is the rice cooked over a wood fire. As the sun sets and its rays cast a soft golden light on the kitchen, my mother would stoke the fire with wood and straw to cook the evening meal. The smoky scent would rise, curling up to the thatched roof as twilight settled in. The smoke lingered, reluctant to leave the kitchen, clinging to the banana leaves that covered the hot ashes. So many afternoons, after many meals, the banana leaves near the stove would be dusted with ash, and the bamboo walls would be covered in soot from the smoke.

We children, experts in food, could always tell when rice was being cooked. The aroma of freshly cooked rice, especially when it was new-season rice, could be detected even from down the street. The fragrance was intoxicating! The most delightful moment was when the pot was boiling, and the lid was lifted—releasing a fresh, milky scent that filled the air, lingering sweetly and wrapping around us. The rice from the first harvest was always soft and fluffy, each grain perfectly round. But the best part of the rice was always the crispy crust at the bottom of the pot. It was golden, crunchy, and full of the smoky flavor of rural rice, with a hint of bitterness in some parts.

My mother’s simple meals never included extravagant dishes. She would serve us a plate of boiled vegetables from the garden, dipped in fermented shrimp paste, and it was so delicious and nourishing. The shrimp paste, when cooked with crispy pork fat, spring onions, and chopped chili, was a fiery red and spicy, just like the flavors of the central region. On hot summer days, the meal was always accompanied by a bowl of soup—either squash, pumpkin, or gourd, simmered with freshwater fish. The broth was sweet and savory, drawing out the best flavors of the fish. During the rainy season, we children would head out to catch fish, and when we caught a big, fat mudfish, it felt like a great triumph. My mother would stew it with pepper and herbs, filling the house with a fragrant aroma. The bitterness of the fish combined with the heat of the pepper made it perfect for winter nights. Though the meals were few and simple, when we left home, we would miss them dearly.

The peaceful evening meals on the mat in front of the house, after the sun had set behind the bamboo groves, were always the most memorable. As the family sat together and shared a meal, we would talk about life, work, and everything in between. The sounds of laughter and conversation, mingled with the earthy taste of home-cooked food, always stayed with me. These moments, though simple, were ingrained in my heart, and when I was far away, the longing to return and relive them grew stronger.

What I miss the most are the midday meals during harvest season. My mother would pack lunch when we went to the fields early in the morning. The white rice was wrapped in thick banana leaves, keeping it warm until lunchtime. We would eat the rice with roasted sesame or salted peanuts, carefully wrapped in more banana leaves. We would take a break under the shade of a tree, with the cool breeze from the fields caressing our skin. Despite the midday sun, the simple meal of rice with peanuts was more satisfying and joyful than any grand feast.

In the hustle and bustle of life today, finding a meal that tastes like home is not too difficult, but what’s hard to find is a meal shared with family. The ingredients might be the same—fresh rice, vegetables, and fish—but something about the meal cooked in the old clay pot, on the worn-out stove of my mother’s kitchen, makes it taste different. Perhaps it’s because those dishes were made with love and sacrifice, prepared with hands weathered by years of work, waiting for the father to return from the fields to join the children for dinner.

A meal from home is not just about sharing food—it’s about strengthening the bond of family and community. When someone in the neighborhood cooked something special, they would share a portion with their neighbors. We children were often tasked with carrying the food from house to house, passing along soup or fish. It was this spirit of sharing, of neighborly love, that made village life so warm and connected. This is the simple, honest way of life that is so characteristic of the rural people—sincere, warm, and true.

Born from the rows of crops and the sweat of my father, raised on the humble meals my mother made, the taste of home is forever embedded in my being. No matter how far I go or how successful I become, the simple sound of rice boiling will always bring me back to my roots and make me long for home.

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Just the mention of "homeland" is enough to stir up a whirlwind of emotions. To me, it is the place where I spent my peaceful childhood filled with love and warmth. There were both moments of joy and sorrow, yet those memories remain indelible. I have tucked them away in my own "corner of homeland".

My corner of homeland is my father's fish trap. Every time I see the first rains of the season swelling the stream or watch the fish—like snakehead, catfish, and carp—swimming in the baskets on display at the market, I am transported back to the days when I was a child, watching my father retrieve the catch from the trap. Our house was once by a small canal, and during the rainy season, the water would rise and flow rapidly, turning into a little stream. Back then, there were no televisions or electricity. Our joy as children was simple: we would go fishing or splash each other in the water when it rained. On these rainy days, my father would set a bamboo fish trap upstream. He would say that the fish swam upstream to lay their eggs. Early in the morning, he would go out to collect the catch, and we, the children, would watch eagerly as he took the fish out of the trap. My mother would clean and grill them, then cook them with ginger and turmeric. The fresh rice, hot and fragrant, paired with the fish from the stream, created a meal whose taste still lingers with me.

We also raised cattle, so my father would often go to the fields to cut grass. Back then, pesticides were rarely used, and birds were still abundant. They would build their nests in the tall grasses and lay their eggs. Sometimes, my father would find a quail's nest and bring the eggs home for us. He would sneak into the house quietly, hiding the eggs behind his back, and then surprise us. My father had a kind, gentle smile, and his eyes always sparkled with warmth. Now, whenever I think of him, I feel a deep sense of loss and longing for those carefree days.

The corner of my homeland is also the kitchen where my mother worked, the place where we spent our simple, yet warm childhood. The small kitchen was filled with firewood that my parents gathered from the nearby hills or from dry branches in the garden. During the rainy season, the firewood would be damp, and the kitchen would be filled with thick smoke. Yet, no matter how humble the meals were, my mother’s cooking always managed to draw us in. Perhaps it was because, as children accustomed to hardship, we never complained and were content with whatever was served. The smoke from the fire would sting our eyes and make my mother’s face flush from the heat, but her smile was always warm and loving. Like many Vietnamese mothers, she found joy simply in seeing her family eat well.

The vast, lush rice fields surrounding my home are etched in my memory. There, I spent many days working alongside my mother, learning to plant rice, pull weeds, and take on the various tasks of farm life. The scorching sun would burn our backs, and the water in the fields felt like it was boiling. These days, spent under the sun with my mother, helped me understand the hard work she endured to support our family. She would always encourage us to study hard, saying that if we succeeded, she could endure any hardship for us.

On those same fields, I also found moments of joy with my friends. Summer was the rainy season, and the rice paddies would overflow with water. Every evening, we would go around looking for soft spots of earth to dig for worms, which we would hook onto our fishing lines. We would gather in open fields or visit gardens to pick guavas or plums while we waited for the fish to bite. The thrill of feeling a fish tug on the line was unmatched. We usually caught just a few fish, but the joy was in the playful chase. Sometimes, we would take our catch home for my mother to make sour soup, or we would roast it in the rice straw and enjoy it with great delight. There were also times when we ventured further, looking for raised patches of earth where we could dig for crickets or grasshoppers, which we would keep in cans with a few grass blades to care for. Such innocent, naive joy—only to be met with sadness when our little pets didn’t survive.

My corner of homeland also includes the road to school, shaded by trees, with the faint fragrance of jasmine, gardenias, or the rich scent of coffee flowers every morning. I remember my friends, who would wake up early to water the vegetables or cut grass for the cattle before hurrying to school. I remember the modest school building set on a piece of land that overlooked the endless rice fields. I remember the large flamboyant trees in front of the school, their red blossoms creating a carpet of petals every summer. We used to gather the fallen flowers to make little butterflies and press them into our notebooks as mementos. I remember the teachers, many of whom came from far away and lived in the temporary dorms at the school, yet always taught us with full devotion, allowing us to make a better life for ourselves.

My corner of homeland holds so many cherished memories, many of which I can never reclaim. It is a place where my soul can find peace and rest after the weariness of life.

Nguyễn Thị Thúy Ái